


Anonymity

by Rambert



Category: Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, Casual Sex, Frottage, M/M, One Shot, POV First Person, Rutting, Sad Ending, Smoking, accidentally catching feelings, barely any talking, grungy apartment, inspired by a drawing my old friend the 0uka did on Y!Gallery back in the day, malnourishment and hunger, secret gay hookup spot in the city, ultra homophobic society (implied)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-10-29 08:16:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20793521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rambert/pseuds/Rambert
Summary: "A hint of a smile played about his lips, but his eyes were what got my attention. Those eyes enveloped me completely; I was drowning in them.And I didn't want to be rescued. I wanted to drown in those eyes forever."





	Anonymity

**Author's Note:**

> Digging up another moldy oldie from the DeviantART vault, I was inspired to write this in 2006 for an old friend's art piece on the now-defunct Y!Gallery, the characters belong to the 0uka though the interpretation is mine. I edited this just a little before posting here, mostly trimming out parts I didn't like any more lol.
> 
> Regarding the "age difference" tag. Pink mohawk character is in mid 20s and narrator is in early 30s, they're about 10 years apart.

I stood on the corner under the harsh light of the streetlamp, waiting.

Standing here fumbling to light a cigarette with my cold-numbed fingers.

Taking a drag slowly, exhaling and watching the smoke plume out of my mouth and dissipate into the blackness of the night air.

  
Waiting.  
  
  
Then I saw him. Walking by himself and looking as cold as I felt.

This winter was hell; cold with no snow. And colder in the windier parts of the city. But what struck me most about him; what I could see even from fifty feet away, was his hair. It was a stiff, spiked mohawk, sticking about six inches up from his head. Dyed a ludicrous flamingo pink.

He was certainly making a strong statement about something.

  
About what, I wondered.

  
And then I realized I didn't really care.  
  
I stubbed out my cigarette as he got closer to me. His head was down, but I knew he'd noticed me. I was practically under a neon fucking sign in this puddle of lamplight on an otherwise dark and empty street.

But I too kept my gaze away from him as he walked nearer, waiting for him to make the approach.

  
That was key.

  
So I waited.  
  
  
"Hey."

  
I glanced up. Mohawk man was standing under the streetlamp with me, and his face and hair was thrown into the stark relief of light and dark.

I noticed he had one nostril pierced. The small metal stud glinted in the light.

His cheekbones were high and prominent, and his chin jutted out fiercely; he was too skinny for his height.

But his eyes were murky and dark... and something in them called to me.

His eyes awoke feelings in me that I had not felt in years... decades maybe.

  
"Hey," I replied back, and after a moment's hesitation, added, "Nice hair."

  
He smirked. "Thanks. Did it myself."

  
My own mouth tightened in a hard half-smile.

  
"Making a statement about something?"

I started, realizing he'd asked me something. "What?"

  
"Your hair," he explained, those dark eyes darting to my shaved head for a moment before locking back onto my own.

"Why the skinhead look?"

  
I managed a dry chuckle.

"Just easier to keep looking neat. But you know, I was going to ask you the same thing. About your hair. You making some kind of statement?"

  
"Suppose I am."

He seemed to retreat into himself, and for a second I thought he'd walk away. But he didn't, not yet.

  
"How about we don't ask questions," I said, trying to make my gruff voice sound reassuring. It had been a while before I'd tried to do anything at all.

It must have worked though, because the tension line that had formed between his eyebrows disappeared, leaving his forehead smooth again.

  
"All right," he said at last, and gave me a small smile.

Something told me he hadn't smiled in a long time. Then again, neither had I.

  
I ventured, "My apartment's only two blocks away."

  
He squinted at me quizzically, cocking his head slightly to one side. I remained calm. Best not to seem desperate.

  
"If you want," I added.

  
He smirked again.

"Seems you're the one calling the shots here."

  
I raised an eyebrow, and noted with a small bit of triumph that he noticed it.

"Am I? You could walk away."

  
He considered this.

  
"This... will be confidential?"

  
"Of course. Totally anonymous."

  
His eyebrows drew together, as if he was really giving this some thought. I nearly laughed. He must've been younger than he looked, if he had to think that much about it.

But then again, he also was not... inexperienced. He wouldn't be out lurking around at this hour if he was.  
  
His voice interrupted my thoughts as he responded:  
"Let's go."  
  
  
We walked the two blocks to my apartment in silence; he followed in step behind me. But it was not an awkward silence.

It was the silence of those who are used to it, and who expect it from those they do not know. And we certainly did not know each other.

I opened the door of my apartment and the grunge of my daily life hit me full-force. Clothes and random items strewn about, dishes in the sink, mold on the walls in the corners, spiderwebs on the ceiling, and tattered furniture that hadn't been cleaned in ages.

I don't know why it bothered me tonight; I'd had people in here before who had complained, quite loudly, but I never paid it any mind.

He took it all in; absorbed it into those dark eyes. But he didn't say a word. Not that I expected him to.

  
I took hold of his hand, and led him over to the bed.

  
Only then did I realize he was nervous, even more nervous than I was. His hand was trembling faintly in my grasp.

  
"Are you sure you want to do this?" I asked, breaking away and sitting on my bed.

I winced slightly at its loud creak. Somehow the little things made all the difference now.

  
He sat beside me. Looked at me. Took my hand in both of his. And uttered one word, that made me shiver because in that one word I could hear his yearning, his need, his desire.

  
"Yes."  
  
We didn't talk for a long time after that. We didn't need to. As I said before, he and I were used to silence.

  
Except it wasn't _complete_ silence. When he hesitantly pressed his lips to mine, I couldn't help moaning. Oh, it had been _far_ too long since I'd done this.

Not many people liked to kiss, any more, because of all the viruses floating around... but I didn't care. I had connections to every antibiotic. And for fuck's sake, I was lonely.

Suddenly it occurred to me that I hadn't kissed a man, or anyone for that matter, in months. Not since... well, no use thinking about that now.

  
When he opened up to me I deepened the kiss, trying to be gentle and not knowing the reason for wanting to be, but giving up anyway.

He didn't seem to mind; on the contrary, he seemed to be wanting this more fiercely than I did.

  
Wanting this. Not me.

  
This.  
  
Somehow we managed to divest ourselves, and I pulled him back onto the bed, his lips still locked to mine.

My fingers traced along the ridges of his spine; he was nearly waiflike in his skinniness. But I realized that he was feeling along my sharply defined ribs, and remembered that I myself was a meager shell of my past self, physically speaking anyway.

  
I trailed my hand up his leg until I sought what I was looking for, and pumped him roughly. He groaned into my mouth and it was delicious.

As I continued stroking him, his bucking hips brushed my own erection, and the roughness of the friction was intoxicating. I arched up into him, craving more, while still lavishing attention on his weeping cock.

He broke away from my mouth, panting, and lowered his kiss-bruised lips to my neck, sucking almost viciously. I'm no masochist, but the pleasure-pain of it was driving me mad.

We weren't even having sex, and already I was teetering dangerously close to orgasm. But if his hitching breaths and whimpers were anything to go by, so was he.  
  
I threw my proverbial book of guidelines and rules of sex etiquette out the window, and fisted him for all I was worth.

  
He was thrusting into my hand so hard now that I had to put my other hand on his back to keep him on top of me. I shoved my hips brutally into his bony pelvis, gasping with the agonizing ecstasy of it all.

  
Then he erupted over my fingers, shuddering, moaning. His hands gripped my shoulders as he rode through the waves of his orgasm, his nails digging into my flesh and making pink crescents on my pale skin.

I slammed into him one more time and was lost also, crying out hoarsely as my vision exploded into black and white stars.

  
I lay back on the bed, breathing heavily, and I was dimly aware that while my hands were cast off to either side of me, lying limply in the dirty sheets, he was still clinging to me like a drowning man clings to a rock in the sea.

After a few moments he moved his mouth next to my ear and whispered, "Is it okay if we stay like this for a while?"

  
His voice was so vulnerable, and I realized how young he truly was. Experienced or not. I took a deep breath, gathering my control from where it had scattered from me during our brief yet intense interlude.

  
"Yes, it's okay," I managed to reply.

  
We lay there, our hearts beating in tandem for a little while when I felt his hot breath in my ear again.

"Could you... could you hold me? Please? Just for a little bit?"

  
I struggled to swallow. Something inside me was stirring, and I didn't want to acknowledge what it was.

Not trusting myself to speak, I gingerly put my arms around him. I heard him sigh, and relax into my awkward embrace.

His head was nestled into the crook of my neck, and his breath ghosted over my collarbone. Eventually my arms relaxed too, and we lay there like that for who knew how long.

  
But I couldn't truly relax, because I knew what was coming next.  
  
Some while later I heard his voice softly at my shoulder, whispering a simple "Thank you, that was very nice."

  
I unconsciously stiffened; my breath caught in my throat.

Kind words were rarely said in this kind of situation. Fuck, but I didn't want him to leave yet.

  
But before I could even finish processing those dangerous thoughts, he was pulling himself up, out of my relaxed arms.

  
I wanted to pull him back down. Wanted to kiss him again. Wanted to know what it truly felt like to be inside him, and to have him inside me.  
  
This couldn't be happening. I'd done this loads of times, and so had he. So why was it getting so fucking difficult this time?  
  
I watched him dress quickly with a sense of numbness, and then he looked at me one last time. A hint of a smile played about his lips, but his eyes were what got my attention. Those eyes enveloped me completely; I was drowning in them.

  
And I didn't want to be rescued. I wanted to drown in those eyes forever.  
  
But then he was walking to the door, and without another word or glance, he was gone.

I sat on my bed, now reeking with the scent of sex, and let my head fall forward into my shaking hands. I nearly gagged; the all-too-familiar heaving convulsions threatened to seize my empty stomach.

But after a few minutes I regained control, wiping myself off and slowly pulling my clothes back on.

  
Before I could stop myself, I ran out my door and out into the empty street, looking around into the night.

  
Of course he was long gone.

  
It's one of the rules-- do it and be done with it; no sticking around afterwards and overstaying your welcome.

  
And besides, it's all about anonymity. God-fucking-damned anonymity.  
  
  
Sighing heavily, I walked the requisite two blocks to my lamppost. The slightest tinge of blue light was peeking over the shorter buildings. It would be morning soon.

  
But time was of no weighty matter to someone like me.  
  
I lit a cigarette, leaned against the post, and waited.


End file.
